By Minim Calibre
Notes: Probaby post-Chosen, but who knows? Buffy/Faith, R.
Hard hips.
Faith thinks they seem almost too thin to be legal, like she’s fucking a school girl, but that’s B, all skin and bone and self-righteous attitude. Unless she’s grinding up against you, her hand down your pants and her tongue in your mouth. The ice queen doesn’t come out until the morning after. It’s always been like this with them, but Faith’s still a sucker for the night before.
Buffy’s just drunk enough that she kinda glitters, like the real girl’s trying to get out from under that coating of ice. Not drunk enough that she’s clumsy: B knows what she’s doing, and she might not be melting, but Faith sure as hell is. Faith grips those hips like they’re the only thing keeping her from falling down, maybe ’cause they are.
Little sparks go off behind Faith’s eyes, between her legs, which have gone all jello on her. Her hands drop away from Buffy’s hips, and yeah, the only thing that was keeping her upright was Buffy the whole time, just not how she thought, ’cause she’s still standing, at least till Buffy pulls her hand out of Faith’s best leathers and breaks contact.
Glitter’s still there, hot and cold, hard and soft. Faith watches from the floor as Buffy licks her fingers, smiles, then turns and walks away.